


Epoch and Artist

by mydogwatson



Series: Postcard Tales IV [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Art in the Blood, Lots of Tea, M/M, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 19:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19383229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: John Watson has an outing and discovers something unexpected.





	Epoch and Artist

**Author's Note:**

> I had far too much fun writing this particular Postcard Tale and hope you will enjoy it as well. I spent a lot of time researching the 1895 Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy and all the artists and works were really there, with one notable exception. Let me know what you think.
> 
> This will be the last thing I post until my long story is finished. I am having surgery soon and plan to use the lengthy recuperation to finally finish that monster. [BTW, nothing horrid. Knee replacement.]

My friend and intimate companion, Mr Sherlock Holmes, once told me that his roots were primarily of the country squire milieu, with all that such a heritage implies. His parents, whilst being sophisticates in many ways, certainly strike one as being solidly of that class. Without, I hasten to add, having the more tedious traits of that decidedly insular society.

At the same time, one might point to Mycroft Holmes as a paragon of respectability. I believe that he is actually as skilled an actor as Henry Kemble, adapting himself perfectly to the role of Important Government Official. Or the British Government itself, come to that.

In addition to those solid roots, Holmes has also mentioned a connection to the artistic French family Vernet, remarking that art in the blood can take a strange turn. Perhaps in his particular case, the violin has replaced the paint brush. When he is in the mood, Sherlock Holmes can certainly paint a lovely picture with the notes he plays.

Although, truth be told, it seems to me that his brilliant skill at using deduction to solve those mysteries we encounter is an art unto itself. And if I told him so, he would accuse me of romanticising what he does. It is science, he would say.

But I still insist that it is the art in his blood that makes him what he is.

*

The bright sunny morning to which we awakened promised a lovely London day, which always improves my mood. The sunshine even managed to chase away at least a little of the melancholy that struck, as always, when I left Holmes in the bed and went upstairs to my purported bedroom to dress. Does it ever become easier to live a life of necessary deception, I wonder.

Still, the fine morning and the memories of the tender and passionate night we had just spent together restored my mood to quite cheerful as I completed my toilette. I was even whistling a bit when I entered our parlour. Holmes was already there, dressed in his usual black trousers and a pristine white shirt with new collar and cuffs. Over it all was his red dressing gown. He was brooding over his morning pipe and one of the more salacious scandal sheets.

“Anything of promise?” I asked brightly, pouring myself a cup of tea.

“The criminal class has become woefully lazy,” he muttered, his eyes still on the newspaper.

After filling a plate with eggs, gammon and toast, I joined him at the table. Clearly, Holmes had merely nibbled around the edges of a single slice of toast with honey rather than having a full breakfast, but I decided not to press the matter this morning. Perhaps his discontent with the lack of a satisfying puzzle with which to occupy his mind might make my planned suggestion more palatable to him.  
I carefully dissected the slice of gammon while speaking casually. “I thought that perhaps we might venture out and attend the Summer Exhibition.”

It was a daring suggestion, because as much as my beloved companion appreciated art, he had frequently also expressed disdain for the annual showing at the Royal Academy. His primary objection seemed to stem from his aversion to rubbing elbows with the crème de la crème of London society. I could not deny his contention that they were often there to be seen rather than out of true appreciation for the art, but that did not deter my enthusiasm for an outing.

There was a lengthy pause during which time I finished my breakfast and poured more tea for the both of us. Clearly Holmes was trying to conjure a way in which he could reject my suggestion whilst not at the same time rejecting me. After a few more moments watching him struggle, I decided to spare him any further anguish. [Affection can be expressed in so many ways, as I have noted before.]

“Or, if you rather, I could go along on my own and leave you to your brooding,” I said.

I knew very well [and was amused by the fact] that he was conflicted again, this time over whether to object to my use of the word ‘brooding’ or to simply accept the escape offered by my offer. “I do have an experiment in progress,” he finally said.

Making a soft comment about the rather odoriferous green matter that had been occupying the corner of his lab table for the better part of the week, I left to finish getting ready for my solitary excursion into the world of art.

*

Apparently, a good part of London society had indeed also decided to spend this glorious day within the walls of the Royal Academy. For a fleeting moment, seeing the crowd, I considered simply meandering through the nearby Green Park instead, but I stiffened my spine and paid the 1s. admittance. Then I laid out another 1s.6d for one of the cloth-bound guide books and a pencil. It was going to be a pleasure to lose myself in pretty images for a time. Holmes and I spent so much time immersed in the dark and unhappy world of crime [while not wanting to spend our lives doing anything else] that it would do me good to remember that everything beyond our safe haven of Baker Street was not all murder and thievery, betrayal and destruction.

After a quick glance through the guide, I decided to begin with the Water-Colours on display, since that medium has always been a favourite of mine. Guidebook and pencil in hand, I was ready to plunge into the galleries.

I enjoyed a great many of the paintings; two of them _Antiquities_ and _Thoughts of Love_ were particularly appealing to me. I was standing in front of a charming portrait entitled _An Arab Bread Seller_ , which reminded me of my own travels to exotic climes, when the woman standing next to me spoke.

“Such images make one long to travel and see more of the world, do they not?” she murmured wistfully.

I turned my head to look at her. A woman of about my own age, I deduced, wearing a most fashionable pale yellow gown and a fetching bonnet sprinkled with tiny silk daisies. She was smiling at me in a friendly manner that was not too forward to be proper. I returned the smile. “Indeed it does,” I said. “I was just reflecting on how it reminds me of my own travels.”

“Have you been to many interesting places?” she asked as we both moved slowly to the next offering, this one a view of the Devon coast in winter. She wore a light floral fragrance, the name of which I am sure Holmes would have been able to tell me had he been present.

“A fair number. As a member of Her Majesty’s forces.”

“Well, at least I have seen Devon,” she replied with a soft laugh.

That seemed a natural ending to our conversation, so I gave a nod and moved on.

After another hour, I was in urgent need of tea and perhaps some cake, so I took the stairs that led up from the Water-Colour rooms in search of sustenance.

Clearly, I was not the only attendee wanting to fortify himself with refreshments, so the tea room was crowded. I managed to find myself a small table tucked in a corner at which to enjoy my tea and gingerbread. I was browsing through the guide book, previewing the oil paintings which were next on my agenda, when a familiar voice interrupted me.

“There is a shortage of chairs,” the woman in the yellow gown said. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Holmes never fails to glower a bit when I show common courtesy to a pretty woman, but as he was not present, I immediately rose to pull out the other chair for her. She thanked me as I resumed my own seat and concentrated on the gingerbread.

“Are you greatly interested in art?” she asked, before taking a small bite of a pink macaroon.

Although my heart had belonged to Holmes for a very long time, I was not so far removed from the rituals of courtship that I could fail to recognise a gentle flirting when it was aimed in my direction. I felt badly that she was wasting her pretty efforts on someone with absolutely no interest, but, of course, I could not say that. I might simply lie, of course, and say that my wife was ill and so unable to attend the exhibition with me.

But I was thoroughly weary of such subterfuge and also angry that those like Holmes and I were forced to live in the shadows as if we were ashamed. In truth, there was nothing I was prouder of than the fact that I was the beloved of Sherlock Holmes. Weary of it all, I simply fell back upon the fiction perpetuated in my scribblings for The Strand. “I am a widower,” I said, ignoring the non-sequitur and hoping that my tone made it quite plain that no more would be said on the subject. “And I have no great knowledge of art, but I enjoy seeing it.”

She was obviously a clever woman who understood my words and not so desperate to be courted that she was more than mildly disappointed. She ate another macaroon. “Have you looked at the oil paintings?”

“Not yet, they are my next destination.”

She glanced around, then leant towards me and lowered her voice. “There is a bit of scandal over one of the works.”

“Indeed?” I glanced down at the guidebook, then gave her a friendly [no more than that] smile. “I always find that a bit of scandal enlivens an afternoon.”

She opened her own guide, turning pages until reaching the one she was apparently looking for. “Gallery IV, right between _The Jolly Huntsman_ and _Portrait of a Lady_. Both of which the scandal outshines rather dramatically,” she said.

I bent my head to see just at what she was pointing. _Narcisse de la Trinité._ “An intriguing name. I shall be certain to seek it out.”

We both finished our refreshments, chatting lightly about some of the other works on show and, finally, the pleasant weather before parting ways.

Although I was slightly tempted to make my way directly to Gallery IV and the Scandal, I tempered my curiosity and made my way methodically, if a bit quickly, through the other galleries. My restraint was rewarded in Gallery I by seeing a painting [ _The Rose of Sharon_ ] by one George S. Watson. Try as I might, I could not draw any familial connection.

My bemusement increased when, in Gallery II, I discovered _Sympathetic Inquiries_ by someone named G.A. Holmes. Between the title and the artist’s name, it was quite an interesting work to me and I found myself quietly pleased to find Holmes and Watson sharing yet another part of the universe. This would amuse Holmes when I told him.

Finally I reached Gallery IV.

I lingered near my goal, waiting until a small clique of chattering women moved away from _Narcisse de la Trinité_ , then stepped forward for my own look.

My first reaction was an immediate understanding of why this painting was causing a definite stir. The young man, pictured in subtle brush strokes and muted colours, like a memory viewed through the lens of time, was devoid of clothing, with only his most private parts covered by a rumpled white bedsheet. It was, even to my untrained eye, a most tender portrait, erotic without being obscene. The subject seemed newly awakened from what had clearly been a pleasant dream, with just the hint of a smile on his lips. The background was early-morning hazy, but I could make out the towering spires of Cambridge through the window.

Shamefully, it was only then that I truly observed what was on the canvas. There was not a shred of doubt what I was seeing. Or, more properly, just _whom_ I saw gazing back at me.

That half-smile. Those unruly dark curls. The piercing cerulean gaze. The small yet visible scar on one shoulder, a remnant of a childhood tumble from a pony named Henry.

And I knew quite intimately what was hidden beneath that sheet.

My muddled thoughts kept me there for too long a time, nearly oblivious to the others who paused to look and speak in low tones about what they were seeing. Finally, I leant close enough to read the signature. V. Trevor. The name was not new to me; I knew the man as Sherlock’s sole friend at university. They had shared rooms for a brief period and the relationship had ended badly. But now I wondered about that relationship.

Was I jealous?

Possibly.

I then took note of the small card posted next to the painting, which declared it Sold. The price gave me pause. Apparently Mr V. Trevor was not inclined to part with his art cheaply. Did artists get sentimental about their work?

At long last, I realised that to continue standing there, gazing at the portrait, might bring me unwanted attention. I moved away and pretended equal interest in _Portrait of a Lady_.

But I found that my desire to see any more art had vanished, so I headed downstairs to the cloakroom to retrieve my hat and coat and left the Academy.

*

It was foolish of me, but I decided to walk the whole distance back to Baker Street and let my mind settle a bit before facing Holmes. I could not stop thinking of the portrait and some of my thoughts were of an admittedly carnal nature, but that was inevitable, was it not? I knew intimately the body that the artist [Victor Trevor!] had laid upon the canvas so beautifully that my baser emotions were bound to emerge.

As I trudged along Bond Street, headed vaguely towards home, I also gave thought to the other emotion brought forth by seeing a painting of the man that I considered my own. It was not a secret that I myself had been no shrinking violet in such matters during my youth, so why did I feel a certain sense of betrayal to realise that Holmes might well have had another relationship before our fated meeting at St. Bartholomew’s? It made no sense at all to feel a rising up of the green-eyed monster in my chest.

At least I recognised that I was behaving like a fool, although that brought little comfort.

By the time I finally set foot in 221, I was exhausted, both physically and in my mind. Mrs Hudson took one look and tut-tutted me up the stairs, promising tea and sandwiches immediately.

Holmes was sitting at his laboratory table, jotting notes into his journal; he glanced up at me as I shed my coat and hat, then he frowned. “Were there no hansoms available? You look quite exhausted.”

I merely shrugged and dropped into my chair.

He made one more note and then came to sit in his own chair opposite mine. “What on earth has rattled you so, my dear boy?”

Briefly, I begrudged that Sherlock Holmes could read me so easily; it seemed unfair.

Before I could formulate a response, Mrs Hudson appeared with the promised tea and sandwiches. I was able to delay a response to Holme’s question by pouring two cups of tea and setting a sandwich onto each plate. My glare at Holmes was sufficiently effective that he lifted the roast beef and mustard sandwich and took a thoughtful bite.

I sipped some tea.

“Did you enjoy the exhibition?”

“Well, enough,” was my reply; I was not in the mood to share by discoveries of the artists Holmes and Watson.

“And was she pretty?” Holmes was not looking at me, but slowly stirring more sugar into his tea.

“Who?” I took an overly-large bite of my sandwich.

“Whomever left you reeking of Crown Victoria lavender perfume, of course.” His tone was waspish.

After a moment, I recognised the absurdity of the situation and could not help the chuckle that escaped. “The pair of us,” I muttered.

We ate and drank in silence for a bit.

As we set aside the sandwich plates and Holmes poured more tea, I finally answered his question. “She wore a stylish yellow frock and a fetching bonnet and is of the opinion that I am a grieving widower with no desire to change that state.”

“Ah,” Holmes murmured. “The dearly departed Mrs Watson.”

His words might provide an awkward entry into the conversation I wanted to have, but at least it was an opening. “Speaking of names from the past,” I said, setting aside my cup.

He quirked a brow at me.

“Victor Trevor.”

It is not often that I can surprise Sherlock Holmes, but uttering that name certainly did.

“Yes? Whatever brings up his name now?”

“He had a painting in the exhibition. I did not realise that he was an artist.”

Sherlock shrugged. “He certainly wanted to be. His father disapproved, of course, so I had no idea that Trevor pursued his painting after we parted ways.”

I reached into my pocket for the guidebook, which was still turned to the page for Gallery IV. Using the little pencil, I carefully circled _Narcisse de la Trinité_ and held it out to him. It was clear to me the very instant Sherlock realised exactly what he was looking at. He jumped to his feet and went to the window, staring down at Baker Street as if hoping for a grisly murder or at the very least a pickpocketing to save him from the conversation. I occupied myself with gathering up the plates and cups and took the tray to the door just as Billy appeared to take it away.

I returned to my chair, filled my pipe with some shag and settled back comfortably.

Finally, still without looking at me, he began to speak. “I have told you that Trevor befriended me after his pup bit my ankle. And that he was my only friend during that time.”

I took the pipe from my mouth. “Friend?” I asked mildly. The image of the painting fresh in my mind.

Holmes clasped his hands behind his back. “Don’t play the idiot, John,” he said sharply. “You know very well that there was no one before you.” Had he been of a petty nature, he might have thrown my own history back at me. But he did not. “I do not deny that there was a certain…frisson between us. But I had no interest in taking things further, although Trevor might have entertained hopes for more.” He gave a short, unamused huff of laughter. “Considering how things ended between us, that we were nothing more than we were was definitely for the best.”

“Did you know of the painting?” I asked.

Finally, he turned to look at me. “I saw the sketch he’d made, but we were estranged before I saw the painting.” He ran a hand through his hair. “He was intending to show it off on that last fatal visit, but it never happened.” Then he gave a faint, rueful smile. “If the painting follows the sketch, I can imagine the result.”

Sherlock came to me and sat on the floor, which was a signal that he wanted me to stroke his hair. It had become a ritual for us. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Since he had been at home all day, he had not fussed with his hair to tame the curls, so my fingers moved easily through them. “Nonsense,” I replied briskly. “You have absolutely nothing for which to apologise. I will admit to some surprise on seeing the painting, which is creating quite a stir.”

“I can imagine,” he said dryly.

I felt a bit foolish now over my reaction. I smiled. “Someone has already paid a considerable sum to own the painting.”

Now Holmes frowned a bit. “Not sure how I feel about idiots gawping at my portrait,” he complained.

I shrugged. “Nothing to be done about it now.” My fingers moved down to caress his cheek tenderly. “What would you say to a late supper at Simpson’s this evening?” I suggested.

He nodded and then stretched up for a kiss, which I was pleased to confer upon those lips.

*

It was much later that night as, replete from roast pork and a lovely blancmange, we sat with our brandies in front of the fire lighted to counter an unexpectedly chilly night. We shared the divan, since no callers were expected and all was quiet downstairs.

Firelight suited Holmes and I was content.

I was about to suggest retiring to our bed, when the sound of the bell from downstairs shattered our peace.

It was only a few moments before we heard Billy pounding up the stairs. Instinctively, we moved apart before he came through the door. His haphazardly buttoned jacket and mussed hair showed that he had been roused from his cot. “Telegram, Mr Holmes, sir,” he said.

Holmes sighed and took it from him. “Is a reply expected?”

Billy shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Very well. Goodnight, Billy.”

A moment later we were alone again. I stood and went to the door to lock it for the night. When I turned around, Holmes was smiling. “Not bad news, then?”

“Not bad news at all, my boy.” He held the telegram out to me.

_Sherlock stop Have recently added a rather nice painting to my collection stop Sadly I now realise that it does not match my décor stop For now it will be stored in the attic stop Unless you or the good doctor would like it stop Mycroft._

I smiled as well. “Your brother,” I said, “is a surprising sort of man.”

“Indeed.”

I sat again, we finished our brandies and then parted to change for bed.

It was only a few minutes later that I opened the door and stepped into Homes’ [our] bedroom, wherein I was stopped dead in my tracks by what I saw.

Sherlock was sprawled on the bed, bare-naked, save for the sheet which covered the important parts. He was grinning at me like a boy pleased with his surprise.

I laughed aloud in pure delight, dropped my nightshirt to the floor and jumped into the bed with him.

Art in the blood, indeed.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Title From Epoch and Artist by David Jones


End file.
